


You Can Run

by ThomasNewtieGangster



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Brothers, Father-Son Relationship, Humor, No Slash, Race and his dad, Reunions, Tags Are Hard, oof, there are tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 22:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15277797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThomasNewtieGangster/pseuds/ThomasNewtieGangster
Summary: After years of running, Racetrack’s past comes back to haunt him.





	You Can Run

**Author's Note:**

> K, in case anyone sees this and says “BUT THAT WAS POSTED ON FF.NET??? PLAGARISM!!!” this is my story, I promise. I’m just posting it here, because why not?? Anyway, please enjoy this little dab of Racetrack bAcKsToRy.  
> ALSO: I understand that a Race has sort of been given a name by the fandom already (Anthony) but I didn’t know that until after I gave him a dub. I just wanted to give him a high-key Italian name and I didn’t think of Anthony so sue me. So just roll with this. Plz.

“Extry! Extry! Three killed in construction accident!”

What a horrifically enticing headline! Like a fly being drawn to carrion, an upright, well dressed gentleman deviated his purposeful stride from its original path and headed toward the call, fishing in his pocket for a penny and handing it to the source of the astonishing news.

Racetrack Higgins, a skinny, blonde-haired Italian boy with a cigar and a crooked grin, accepted the coin with a tip of his cap and handed the man a newspaper.

“Thanks, mista,” he said. He took his ever-present cigar out of his mouth a wiped his nose, grinning wickedly after the gentleman. Oh yes, there had been a few deaths in that construction accident. However, all three of them had been wayward pigeons. Not exactly what one would call “big news”. But it sold.

Sticking his cigar between his teeth, Race pulled another paper out of his bag. “Man found dead in pub! Foul play suspected!” he shouted, waving the paper above his head. “Extry! Extry!”

Translation: a man was found passed out drunk in a bar, and his wallet had been stolen.

The faux headline was ignored at first, then one; two more papers sold. Two more people fooled. Three papers in the last half-hour, with twenty-two papers to go. Pretty good, so far.

 _I oughta jus’ ask ‘em if dey wanna look stupid for a penny,_ Race thought, looking through the paper for the hundredth time to see if he had missed any possible headlines. “‘Man thought guilty for robbin’ florist found innocent’,” he muttered through his cigar, adjusting his cap to shield his eyes from the sun. He flicked angrily at the paper, scoffing. “How’m I s’posed to work widdis nonsense?”

“Excuse me!”

“Huh?” He looked up to see a thinly bearded man sitting in a carriage, waving, trying to get his attention. Race straightened, pulling his cigar out of his mouth. “Whatsa matta mista?”

“Can you direct me to Luther’s Furniture?” the man inquired. “I got some wares I need to deliver.”

“Maybe,” Race said, tilting his head slyly. “Got a bit of trouble rememberin’…”

The man huffed good-naturedly and flipped him a penny. The newsboy caught it with a grin and stuffed it in his pocket.

“A’right… Luther’s… Ah…” Race removed his hat and scratched his head, glancing down the street. “I t’ink… if you go down dat way—“ he pointed with his cap, “—and turn left at Mowa’s Street, you’ll find it. I ain’t too shore d’ough. I ain’t exactly been buyin’ any fer-nitcha lately.”

He looked back up at the man, waiting for a reply. The man sat silent, gawking at him. Race’s carefree smile flickered.

“Somet’in’ wrong, mista?” he asked.

The man looked as though he’d seen a ghost. His eyes were wide, his bearded jaw ajar, and his leather-gloved hands held the reins limply.

Race fidgeted uncomfortably. Had he stolen something from this man before? He didn’t seem familiar, but Race’s memory wasn’t exactly the greatest, either.

Finally, the man stirred. He shut his mouth and peered curiously at Race, and to the boy’s surprise, his eyes glittered. Race looked at the wheels of the wagon, yanking his hat onto his head, not sure what to do. This had never happened before. Men didn’t usually get teary-eyed when they saw him. They usually gripped the wallets tighter and glared.

“Mista, I dunno what de problem is, but-“

“Pier?” the man whispered.

Race’s head jolted up, his own eyes bugging. He shuffled backward a pace in surprise.

“‘Scuse me?” he spluttered. “What-?”

Then Race’s gaze met the other’s, and he froze.

He remembered. The eyes. The man’s eyes. They were his own. Bright, vibrant sky blue. Older, yes, and more tired and sad, but his.

Those were the eyes of Luca Higgins. The eyes of his father.

“Papa?”

“Pier,” the man leaped from the wagon, standing mere steps in front of Race, his arms open uncertainly, as if wanting to embrace him but being afraid he’d disappear if he touched him. “Oh, my God!”

Race didn’t move. He stood, stiff as a board. His precious cigar had slipped unnoticed from his hand, falling softly to the ground, forgotten. He stuttered. Race, loudmouthed and sarcastic and ever-witty, could not find a single thing to say. If he was asked to come up with a fake headline right then and there, he’d have started coughing very hard.

The man gently touched his shoulder. Race stood a still as a bronze statue, his eyes locked on the other’s face. A lump rose so high in his throat he thought he might vomit. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed him.

”Papa, I-“

“Pier,” the man breathed. “I thought you were dead.”

Race stepped away and wiped angrily at his nose, sniffling hard and pulling his hat down.

“Well, I ain’t dead,” he replied huskily.

“I missed you, Pier,” his father said, his voice breaking a little. “More than you know.”

“I’m shore you did,” Race muttered, reaching down and picking up his cigar. He kept his eyes averted from his father’s face.

Luca’s smile dimmed. “What happened to you?”

Race looked at the wheels of the wagon and said nothing.

“Pier-“

Race cleared his throat loudly, cutting him off. “We got a lot to talk abou’, I’m guessin’,” he said. “But layta.”

Luca noticed the half full bag of newspapers slung over his son’s shoulder. “Yes, we both have work to do, I think.”

“Yeh.”

Neither one of them moved. Luca stepped away, his eyes lingering almost fearfully on his son.

“Well,” he said hesitantly. “I suppose I’ll just... get on with my deliveries then.”

Race watched mutely as his father turned and mounted his wagon. Luca looked back at him as he picked up the reins, looking relieved that the boy hadn’t vanished when his back was turned.

“At six o’ clock?” he suggested. “Back here?”

Race nodded stiffly. The elder gave the younger one last brief salute; snapped the reins and clicked his tongue. The newsie gazed numbly after the wagon as the horses clopped away, until they disappeared around the corner. He tore his gaze away, his brain finally catching up with reality.

What was his father doing this far south? After all this time… what were the odds?! What were the odds that he would be on this street, at this time, just as Luca Higgins — of all people! — would roll up and ask him — of all people! — for directions?! Definitely not odds that Race would have soberly put money on.

He shivered, suddenly realized he was sweating profusely, and wiped a sleeve across his forehead.

 _Time to get back to work_ , he thought. Jamming his cigar between his teeth, he tried to shrug off the nauseas feeling in his stomach as he pulled out a newspaper and returned to his hawking.

* * *

Luca Higgins dreaded six o’ clock like he dreaded tax collection day. After years of seeing curly-headed ghosts out the corners of his eye, he wondered if the Pier he had met had really been Pier at all. Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he had dreamed it up and fooled himself into thinking it was real. He’d done it before. He wanted it to be real, more than anything he had ever wanted. He prayed for it to be real; he had been for years. However, reality had been cruel to him, and many times he had had his hopes shattered, like tiny glass figurines under a steel-toed boot. Every minute that passed sowed another doubtful thought, trying to save himself from another crushing dose of truth, till he had almost convinced himself the morning had never happened.

Yet, still, when the clock struck six, and the church bells rang out over the city, he was back at the dusty corner, hat in hand, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for seemed like hours, standing by a fruit stand and scanning the streets, searching. He kept telling himself it was useless, that he was waiting for a train that would never arrive, yet he stayed. He dared not leave, in case his boy should come back, looking for him. He would wait there till his legs became like marble, and he withered and blew away like sawdust.

Then the train arrived.

Race came sprinting up the street, cigar between his fingers and his hat tucked safely in his back pocket, a panicked look on his face.

Luca’s eyes lit up, he stood straight, and he uttered a silent prayer. The newsboy ran toward him, stumbling wildly to a stop a few paces in front of him, panting hard and sweating. His hair stuck to his glistening forehead, and his bright blue eyes shone with adrenaline.

“Sorry!” he gasped, wiping his face. “I had to go fartha downtown- two miles- I didn’t see de time.”

Luca said nothing. He quietly took in the image of the huffing, sweating, lanky boy in front him, storing it away in his memory in case something should suddenly whisk him away. Stepping closer, he reached out, faltered, and gently touched Race’s face with baited breath, waiting for his fingers to pass through the specter in front of him. The boy didn’t move, his shoulders heaving a little as he took in air. Race’s eyes were anxiously scanning Luca’s face he reached up and grasped his fathers wrist. He didn’t move it; just held it tightly in his dirty hand, silently reassuring his father that he was there.

Luca felt his eyes sting as a small, grateful smile of relief and joy crept onto his tired face. In a sudden bout of ecstatic energy, grabbed the boy’s sweaty head in both hands, laughter bubbling out as he did a little bouncing dance on his toes. Race grinned, holding onto both Luca’s arms, and laughed right back, swaying with his father’s jig. They laughed and bounced a circle till people began to stare. Still laughing, Luca hugged him quickly, then stood back and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am,” he gushed, the words feeling like they leaped from his mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

Race looked up at his father, his eyes twinkling with glee. He was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. His face softened; he beamed blissfully. He knew he had a lot to explain, and was going to hate explaining it, but he was so happy, he hardly cared at the moment.

“I missed you, too, Papa.”

Luca grinned and ruffled his hair vigorously. ”You did a lot of growin’, I see.”

“I guess you could say dat,” Race replied, putting his cigar in his mouth and tucking a thumb in his pocket. Luca frowned in mock disappointment.

“I also see you’ve taken up smokin’.” The other reddened a little as Luca nodded judgmentally at him. “Nice to see you makin’ good life choices.”

“Hey, if you t’ink dat’s bad, you’re gonna get a real kick outta de rest of my routine.”

“Oh no,” Luca laughed. “How bad is it?”

Race grimaced. “Well, for starta’s…”

* * *

“You live here?” Luca asked incredulously. They stood outside the Newsboy Lodging House, the street lamps illuminating the shabby building. Someone had written “If you can reed this, your too close” in soap on the downstairs window. However, it appeared backwards to the intended audience of the sign. The windows upstairs were lit, and the ever-moving shadows of the newsies inside could be seen. The shadow of a pillow flew across the room, and a muffle shout could be heard.

“Yup,” Race confirmed proudly. “Six cents a night; ten if you wanna private bunk.”

Luca glanced at him. “Private bunk?”

“Yea. Nobody really takes dat offa d’ough. Can’t afford it. ‘Sides, in de winta, two kids to a bed is a blessing.”

Race continued to survey his lodging house with a sense of pride and dignity, while Luca gave him a rather perplexed glance.

“Yessir,” Race sighed thoughtfully. “It ain’t no castle, but it does de job.” He gestured to the door. “Wanna meet my boys?”

“If your boys are anything like the house they stay in: absolutely.”

Race led his father into the dusty lodging house. Luca looked around, taking in the faded wallpaper and the cobwebs in the corners of a ceiling. Several different banners — crudely crafted of cloth and scrap wood — were nailed to the walls, all with some variation of a protest painted on it in messy handwriting. “Strike”, “stop the presses”, and “stop The World”; a red portrait of Pulitzer with devils’ horns. In the center of the banners, a newspaper with the headline “Children’s Crusade; Newsies Stop The World” and a grainy picture of group of ragtag kids tripping all over each other.

“Hiya, Kloppman,” Race crowed, waving to the elderly man behind the counter. “Papa, dis is Mr. Kloppman. He runs de house. Wakes us up in de mornin’. Gives out soap.”

Luca reached over the counter and shook Kloppman’s wrinkled hand. “How do you do, Mr. Kloppman?”

“How do, sir?” Kloppman replied, eyeing the other man with friendly curiosity. “And you are?”

“Oh, I’m Pier’s father,” Luca explained.

Kloppman seemed confused. “Who is—?”

Race interjected: “He means me, Kloppman.”

“Ah,” the old man said, nodding understandingly. He glanced at Race. “You have a fatha now?”

“Long story,” Race informed him. He fished in his pocket and set a half dozen pennies on the counter. “I’m gonna show him around.”

Kloppman waved at him dismissively. “Whateva ya like, my boy.”

“C’mon.” Race gestured for Luca to follow and then ran up the stairs, going three at a time.

As they crested the top of the stairwell, a great wave of noise hit Luca’s ears. Not useless, horrid noise, like a squeaking door or metal scraping across sidewalk. The sound of exuberant children having a good time is never useless.

Race made a sweeping gesture at the chaos. “D’ese are my boys.”

One the kids, who was actually trying to sleep, looked up as they entered and gave an exhausted smirk. “Heya, Racetrack.”

“Hey, Corky.”

Luca peered sideways at his son suspiciously. Racetrack? _How_ ever _had he come by_ that _nickname?_ he wondered.

Corky squinted at Luca. “Who’s that you got witcha?”

Suddenly, as if on cue, the din in the room subsided, till one boy was left swinging a pillow wildly at the newsies standing around him. Someone smacked him in the back of the head and told him to shut up.

Luca felt all eyes on him. Despite the crowd consisting entirely of children, he was extremely uncomfortable, as though he were being judged in his union suit in front of a gathering of well-dressed gentlemen.

The silence was becoming somewhat unbearable. Then someone sneezed.

A taller boy hopped down from the bunk he had been standing on and sauntered toward them. He was clearly the leader; none of the previously rambunctious kids moved, waiting for his signal.

“Who’s dis?” the boy asked.

“Hello to you too, Jack,” Race snorted. He cleared his throat, clearly far more anxious than his voice let on. “Well, uh… actually…” He glanced back at Luca, as if for some sort of support. “…Dis here is Racetrack Senior.”

Silence.

A kid gasped. “Your brother!?”

The room erupted into exasperated name-calling and flying hats.

“No, you moron!”

“It means his father, stupid!”

“Shut up, Barrel!”

Jack ignored the riffraff and looked at Race with a mixture of shock and amused suspicion. “You got a fadda?”

Race shifted uneasily. “Well, yeah,” he retorted defensively. “Everybody’s got a fatha. Some of ‘em just ain’t around.”

“Your’s seems to be,” Jack noted, jabbing a thumb at Luca, who was now warding off several boys, all of whom were bombarding him with a barrage of questions. He gave a short laugh. “Why didn’t you eva say nuttin’?”

Race’s expression steeled. “‘Cause it weren’t any of your business, is why,” he growled icily. “You wasn’t exactly truthful about your fatha. Don’t go tellin’ me I was outta line.”

“I wasn’t–“

But his eyes had gone cold, and his usual smug smirk had set into a thin, mirthless line. He glared hard at Jack, daring him to say anything else. Then he stepped away to join the flock of inquisitive newsboys. Jack almost stopped him, but decided against it. He really didn’t care whether Race told him anything or not. However, he was suddenly aware that he knew almost nothing about his friend’s past.

He’d always personally assumed his parent’s were dead, like everyone else’s. In fact, he’d almost forgotten that Race would’ve even had parents, ever. Like he sprouted out of the feeding troughs at the racetrack or something. Now that he knew that not only the racer a normal product of the populace, but that his father was also still around — and on good terms with his ridiculous son, no less — Jack had questions, and by golly, he was going to get answers.

But not yet. Jack had seen that look before, on himself, and he knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of Race for while yet.

Sighing, Jack stood back, crossed his arms, and watched the interrogation of Luca Higgins:

The man was backed against the wall with his hands raised, a bustling semi-circle of dirty boys yammering around him like baby birds screaming for food.

“You’re his fadda?!”

“Are you dead?”

“Where do ya live?”

“What was Race like as a kid? Was he stupid?”

Luca laughed. “Hush up! Be quiet!” he shouted. “I can’t hear you when you’re all talkin’ at once!”

They quieted to excited whispers. Boots, a small black boy with a pink shirt, raised his hand. “Why are you here?”

“I was in town deliverin’ some furniture to a store.”

Mutterings. So he worked for a furniture company. Not very interesting.

“How old are ya?”

“I’m not tellin’ you.”

Whispers of approval. A secretive furniture man was far more interesting than a regular furniture man. Heck, for all they knew, maybe he wasn’t a furniture man at all. Maybe that was his cover story. Maybe he actually guarded the President!

From a bright-eyed, curly-headed boy called Mush: “Mr. Racetrack, did you hear ‘bout our strike?”

“I did,” Luca grinned. “I saw the paper downstairs, too. Real good to see kids standin’ up for themselves.”

Proud nodding amongst the newsies. They really had done well, holding their own against the mighty giants. They were beginning to like Mr. Racetrack Senior. A secretive fellow who may or may not be a guard of the President, who also supported their strike efforts. He seemed like a great guy so far.

“Did Race do dumb stuff when he was a kid?” inquired black-haired boy in the front, dubbed Pillowcase.

“Of course,” Luca responded with a snort. “One time I came home from work and his mother had tied him to a chair with bedsheets to keep him out of the bread dough.”

Giggles and loud obnoxious cackling. Yes, this man was definitely an ally. Willingly telling embarrassing stories about the cigar boy? Yes, please!

A boy with an eyepatch and wide, leering grin punched Race’s shoulder.

“Dough boy! Ha ha!”

Race elbowed him. “Shuddup, Blink.”

More laughter.

“So wait, he’s got a motha, too?” a ginger haired boy named Albert implored.

Luca didn’t answer immediately.

“No,” he replied flatly. “Just me.”

Albert nodded, satisfied. “Nice.”

Jack mentally hit his head against a wall.

Loud chattering resumed, drowning Luca in garbled questions and odd stories, telling him about the most arbitrary things. Race joined in, yelling and laughing with the rest. Luca seemed to enjoy the nonsense, talking loudly back at them with an bemused grin. Then someone the back shouted: “Did Race run away?”

The boys all began to echo the question, nagging him for an answer. Race fell silent.

“Uh—“ he saw Race glare at him shamefacedly “—yes. Yes, he did.”

“Why?” a smaller newsie piped up.

“Yeah, why did he?”

“Did ya hit him?”

“Did you take away his lucky dice?” someone quipped. The boys laughed.

“A’right, a’right,” Race interrupted gruffly, shoving kids away from Luca before the man could answer. “I brung him here to show him around, not grill him.”

The boys began to protest, but Jack stepped up.

“Shut it, fellas,” he ordered. “You can ask questions layta. ‘Sides, Kloppman’s gonna start wonderin’ why we ain’t getting’ ready for suppa. So git.”

“Aw, come on, Jack—!”

“Git,” Jack repeated, swatting playfully at the indignant newsboys. “Don’t make me knock you out.”

Grumbling, the boys receded back to their respective bunks, muttering among themselves and heading to the bathroom to wash their hands and cups. Race tapped Jack’s arm.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“No problem,” the older boy whispered back. “But I’ll admit, I’m just as curious as de rest of ‘em.”

Race clenched his fists. “Stay out of it,” he gritted. “You’ll get told when I feel like tellin’.”

Jack held up his hands defensively. “Don’t go woykin’ yourself up, pal. I’m jus’ curious.”

Race scoffed resignedly, starting toward the door. “You ain’t the only one.” He jumped down the stairs. “C’mon, Papa.”

Luca muttered some goodbyes to the boys, then turned to Jack.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Jack replied.

“You comin’?” Race called.

“Yeah!” Luca shouted back. He hesitated. “He never told you guys about his family, did he?”

“Not once in all de six years I known him. Made a couple jokes ‘bout tradin’ his ma for a box of cigars, but those was jus’ jokes.” He paused. “I dunno why he left ya, but I’m guessin’ he tried to forget you. Didn’t really need ya; he had us, afta all.”

Even in the dim light of the lamps, Jack could the hurt on Luca’s face. He bit his tongue.

“Sorry, dat didn’t come out de way I meant-“

“No,” Luca shushed him. “You’re probably right. You were what he didn’t have. What I couldn’t give him.”

He shrugged and smiled gratefully at Jack, but the boy could see the injured flicker in his eyes. “Thanks for watchin’ him all these years.” He spat in his hand and offered it.

Jack grinned and spat. “If you could call it dat,” he snickered, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. Luca laughed.

Race came clambering loudly up the stairs. He raised his arms impatiently. “Are you comin’ or what?”

“Calm down, Pier.” Luca followed him, giving one last nod to Jack before descending the stairs. He turned to his son jokingly. “Or should I say: Racetrack Junior?”

“Don’t make me come over there,” Race threatened.

* * *

Mr. Kloppman came out of the kitchen as Race and Luca headed for the door, wiping his hands on a dingy grey apron.

“You’re not stayin’ for supper?” he asked.

“Nah,” Race paused in the doorway, sniffing the air and smirking with wicked amusement. “Smells like the de usual, anyway.”

“Ah, get outta here,” Kloppman scolded. He flicked Race’s hat and hobbled up the up the steps to retrieve his boys.

Father and son retreated to the outdoors, walking along the sidewalk and chatting noisily about their jobs, the newsies strike, and stupid things that didn’t really matter. It just felt good to talk.

However, Race knew that they were both stalling; that eventually, the spotlight would fall on him and the doors would be shut, and he would be forced to confess. There was no way around it. He almost wished they would just get it over with, so his stomach could stop churning.

Finally, their useless chatter subsided, and a tense silence fell between them. Luca sat down on a bench as they passed by it, forcing Race to stop. The newsboy felt his skin go clammy as he fiddled his cigar nervously. He wanted desperately to light it and take a puff, but he knew his father would probably stare him down with one of his “looks”.

Luca folded his hands together.

“So,” he began quietly, but with an earnest that told the younger that the question would not be avoided again. “Why did you leave?”

Race sighed and rubbed his face, wishing for all the world that he could disappear. Today had been a rather trying day. He didn’t want bring up past problems to add to his current ones, but he knew his father deserved an explanation. And an apology.

“I couldn’t stand dat place,” he said, leaning against a nearby lamppost, stuffing one hand in his pocket.

Luca seemed confused. “What do you mean?”

“I jus’ couldn’t live in dat house no more.”

Luca wrung his hands in distress. “I’m sorry-“

“No, Papa,” Race cut in tersely. “It wasn’t you. I know you probably thought it was ‘cause of you, but it weren’t. Nothin’ I did was eva your fault.”

Luca fell silent. Race twiddled his cigar.

“Afta Nicky died, it wasn’t de same. Every time you was off at work, I was home alone, or at school alone. I’d always had him with me before. But when he died…” He trailed off. “I jus’ couldn’t stay d’ere. I kept expectin’ him to pop out a cupboard and everythin’ would be de way it was. I knew he wouldn’t, but… I dunno.”

He paused and dug at the stone sidewalk with the toe of his boot. Then he added softly: “I still blame meself for him.”

Luca stood rather suddenly. “It wasn’t your fault, Pier. Don’t you dare-“

“I know damn well it wasn’t my fault!” Race snapped. “I didn’t give him de bug; I ain’t no docta, and I know we couldn’t afford one. I did everyt’ing I could to keep him up. I know dat.”

“Then stop-“

“I can’t not blame me,” Race interrupted again. “I had to blame somebody. And ‘sides, I was de one watchin’ him every day! I woke up witchu in de mornin’, and I fed dat kid afta you left for work. I took him to school, I bathed him, I held him. I was his big brotha! I couldn’t just lose him like dat and not feel responsible.”

“Imagine how I felt,” Luca countered. “Imagine bein’ a father and a husband, who’s already lost his wife, and then lost his youngest son. I already felt horrible for leavin’ my ten year old boy with the the task of a grown man, and then I had to live with the death of my youngest on my hands. ‘Cause I didn’t make enough money to get him a doctor. ‘Cause I couldn’t stay home and take care of him. If anyone was responsible for Nick’s death, Pier, it was me. Me and only me.”

Race stared at him, his bright eyes now dull.

“Now imagine that man, that father,” Luca went on. “Now imagine his only remainin’ child disappearin’.” His voiced cracked.

Race could no longer meet his gaze. He wanted to do something with his hands, but he felt as though moving would be a crime. He swallowed hard.

“I searched day and night for you, for weeks. I ended up getting fired ‘cause I took so many days off. I probably walked around the world a hundred times lookin’ for you. I built you a casket in case I found out the worst had happened. A year passed and I couldn’t find you. I almost gave up. I almost quit.”

With a sickened start, Race realized that when his father said he almost quit, he didn’t mean looking. 

Luca fell quiet, except for the sound of his shaky breathing. Race swallowed again, slowly brought his eyes up from the floor, and looked at him.

Luca was visibly trembling. His fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were white. He looked pale and gaunt, as if all six years of worry were showing themselves at once. Race felt a lump rise in his throat, and his stomach felt cold.

“The only thing that kept me from givin’ up was that I never had to put a body in the casket.” Luca softened. “As long as it was empty, I told myself. There was chance you could be alive.”

Race could hear his heart pulsing in his head. His ears burned. Guilt piled up on him like bags of sand. How could he have done this to his father? How could have left him to rot with this baggage? How could have been so thoughtless; selfish; blind? How?

“There was a chance.” Luca smiled, and it seemed like ten years of aching burden had been lifted from him. “And now here you are.”

Race opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Did it matter? Nothing he could say would be able to fix this. Nothing could justify him.

“Papa.”

Luca stared at him, and Race saw he was not angry. Just broken. Very, very broken.

“Papa, I’m sorry.” He strained to keep his voice from breaking. “I neva meant…”

“I know.”

Race struggled to clear his blurry vision. He had lived the past six years of his life on the streets of slums, through icy winter and sweltering summer, through beatings and victories, and he had only cried twice.

But as he finally hugged his father and felt a comforting hand gently cradling the back of his head, he knew he was forgiven, and he wept. He was stiff, and he held his breath to try and hide the shaking of his shoulders, but he wept.

Luca did not. He had shed more than a lifetime’s worth of tears over his boys. Far more than enough. Now he could love. Now he could laugh. Now he could live, and live knowing it was for a reason, and not for some wistful hope that would never be fulfilled.

“I love you, Papa,” Race whispered quietly.

Luca shut his eyes and smiled warmly, gently rubbing his son’s head like he used to do so long ago.

“I love you, too, Pier.”


End file.
